Dark Winter

by Andy McNab

His voice was still calm, very much in command, as he headed back to the settee, his eyes glancing at the TV pictures of bored and bedraggled police officers outside Earl’s Court tube. ‘As you can see, things are not as straightforward as I would have hoped.’

  The van started, ready to take her away.

  I walked into the room. ‘You going to light that fire? It’s freezing.’

  ‘But of course.’ He knelt and clicked the ignition button as he turned on the gas. ‘I’m going to explain why you still need to know she is alive.’ He was talking to the fire. ‘You see, I have no technical way of checking that you have in fact brought the Y. pestis. The bottles, they are genuine – but their contents? That will take a little while to ascertain, but it is not a problem. Your mayor says the underground system might be closed for a day or two. So –’ he got up, waving both hands in the air, then settled back into the settee and let them drop on to his thighs ‘– so, we have to play a waiting game. I know you are a sensible man. That moment of stupidity –’ he gestured towards the stairs ‘– that was just weakness. I know you won’t do anything like that again, because if you did, they would simply kill her. So we just wait.’

  The source lit himself a cigarette and I heard footsteps on the stairs behind me. Grey came in, and I could hear the van. He walked past me as if I wasn’t there.

  The source got up and opened the nearest of the closed doors. I saw a 1960s-style gas cooker standing next to a stainless-steel sink and draining-board. Lying on the brown carpet tiles at its base were the silver-haired Indian couple from the fireplace photographs. He wore a grey cardigan over a white shirt, buttoned to the collar, and his lined face and silver moustache gave him a quiet dignity. She looked pathetic in comparison. Dressed in a green sari, she also wore a cardigan, and her husband’s socks to keep out the cold. They looked a devoted couple, and probably had been right up to the moment they were killed. There was no blood. They hadn’t been cut up like Carmen and Jimmy. They had probably been strangled or suffocated to keep the noise down.

  The source studied my face as I took in the dead couple. ‘Do not feel sorry for them. They are in Paradise. They are happy now they understand the reason for this family sacrifice.’

  Grey stopped at the door and took the bottles. The source held his face in his hands, smoke from his cigarette curling up into his hair. They stared into each other’s eyes for a few seconds as the source mumbled something, then Grey headed for the fridge. He placed the bottles on the carpet, then bent down to empty it. The source closed the door on him and sat down again, drawing on the last of his cigarette.

  ‘This son you’re talking about, where she’s going – he’s dead as well?’

  ‘Yes, he, too, has that honour. And perhaps he has you to thank. We needed two houses for this new, unexpected phase of the operation.’ Smoke leaked from his mouth as he waved me towards one of the chairs. ‘Sit. We’re going to be here for quite some time.’

  I could hear the clink of bottles. I picked up the dry raincoat and put it on, then went and sat in the armchair closest to the fire.

  The source was still in explanation mode. ‘You see, the only way we can check that you have delivered the Y. pestis is for someone to consume it. So, if you’ve exchanged the bottles, please tell me now. Your child doesn’t have to die just because you are lying to us. I’ll give you the opportunity to go and get what I want.’ He paused. ‘Well, are the contents of the bottles genuine?’

  I nodded.

  ‘We will soon see.’ He looked at the closed door as if he could see through it. I heard a cork pop, followed by some hard, aggressive coughing. Grey must have taken a very hard and dutiful snort.

  The source looked at me and smiled. ‘That is the sort of commitment to God that will make us victorious. We will all go to Paradise.’

  The door opened and Grey appeared with a mask on. The fridge was closed, no bottles to be seen. Just a pack of butter, a carton of milk and some Tupperware containers lying beside the old couple. They nodded at each other once more as he closed the kitchen door and headed downstairs.

  That was it, then. We were going to wait until Grey showed signs of contamination. Only then would the source prepare the kit and get out there. Maybe the other two would join him for a while, chugging their lungs up on the tube during rush-hour.

  What about Kelly?

  She’ll get contaminated by him.

  Shit, shit – cut away from that. Think only about what you’re going to do now, this minute, to stop it happening.

  ‘You’re going to get caught, you know. They’re out there looking for us. Just let her go. I promise you, they’re the real bottles. You know I wouldn’t fuck about with her life. Why let her get contaminated? Let her go – she doesn’t know where we are. Drop her off at a library or something. Keep me – she’s just a kid, for fuck’s sake.’

  The outside door slammed and the Transit’s engine revved. The source leant towards me, smoke escaping from his nose and his mouth. ‘You people didn’t think so much about my children. Both of them are about the same age as yours.’ His expression hardened. ‘Maybe they do not matter as much as white people. It’s me who’s fighting the jihad, not my children – but they will pay the price because of you. So why is your child so much more important than mine?’

  ‘She isn’t. But she’s mine.’

  ‘You are exactly right, and you still have the opportunity to keep her alive. If the bottles really do contain Y. pestis, your child will most likely be contaminated. But you have the power to keep her alive by waiting patiently until I carry out my duty. Then you will be able to collect her and give her medication.’

  He picked up the cell and dialled. ‘And you are helping us because all those thousands of people you don’t know mean nothing to you – only your child means something. Maybe she will live, maybe not, but you will stay here. That is because, unlike me, you are simply weak and want to save your child.’

  He finally stubbed out the dog end that had remained stuck between his fingers, and spoke rapidly into the phone. I didn’t have a clue what he was saying, or even what language he was saying it in, but the phrase ‘National Guard’ was easy enough to pick up – and the reason he’d said it. His eyes were glued to the News 24 coverage of events in the US. He seemed to be reacting absolutely calmly to the caption that state amber still held. The National Guard were filmed patrolling bridges and other key locations, and it appeared all police and fire-service leave had been cancelled. They threw in some shots of Americans panic-buying even more frenziedly now that the BBC’s reports of the possible London attack had hit the US networks. Hundreds of people were lined up at checkouts with trolleys laden down with bottled water, canned food, plastic sheeting and duct tape.

  The Yes Man had been wrong about there being panic on the streets if the attack was successful. It was here already.

  He put the phone back on the arm of the settee but his eyes didn’t leave the TV.

  ‘Was that the American team?’

  He didn’t look at me. ‘As you can see, they may be delayed. But God is with us.’

  The cell rang as the picture switched to lines of UK buyers in a twenty-four-hour Tesco, doing exactly the same as the Americans after seeing the late-night news.

  He wasn’t fazed: he just checked the number, pressed the connect button, and started to talk again. The conversation went on for several seconds. The TV showed the talking head of a politician, probably appealing for calm.

  The phone went down. I needed to know who he’d been talking to. ‘Is she at the son’s house now? Is she OK?’

  He nodded. ‘Of course. We are not animals.’

  60

  What the fuck was I going to do now? What about Suzy? Had she kept up with the Transit on the way here? Was she still outside, or was she following it again?

  She’d have stayed put. Even if she’d seen Kelly being bundled into the van she’d have let her go. Fair one, I couldn’t blame her for that: she hadn’t se
en me, or, more importantly for her, DW.

  How long had I been here? Thirty minutes, maybe forty, I didn’t know. She could be about to burst in at any moment, fucking up whatever was going to happen.

  What was going to happen?

  I had to do something, and I had to do it very soon. What if Grey and Navy were checking in with the source every half-hour – even every quarter? What would happen to Kelly if a report time went unanswered? I knew the answer, and it was one I couldn’t cut away from. They’d kill her.

  Our eyes were fixed on the TV, a metre or so to my left, as panic, conjecture and downright lies unfolded silently on both sides of the Atlantic.

  The source was a couple of metres to my right. He slipped his cell into his pocket as he tapped out another cigarette from the pack.

  I looked back at the TV, measuring the distance between me and the brass mosque on top. It was about the size of an SLR camera.

  I breathed in slowly, deeply, psyching myself up. I had only one chance.

  I counted, one .. . two . . . three . . .

  I sprang forwards, eyes fixed on the shiny metal lump.

  There was a muffled shout behind me.

  In grabbing it, I tipped over the TV, and sent the rest of the ornaments flying across the floor.

  I swung my head round to fix on target. My body followed, the fistful of metal raised like a hammer.

  His face didn’t register surprise or fear, just anger, as he cleared himself off the settee. ‘You idiot! Your child!’

  I brought the mosque down hard on his head, bending my knees for more power.

  It didn’t connect. Starbursts filled my eyes and I went down, tumbling over the settee. Fuck, that hurt.

  I had to keep moving.

  I forced my eyes open, tightened my hold on the weapon. One side of my face burned with pain and I tasted blood. I felt teeth where they shouldn’t be. All I could see were his feet, bouncing up and down on the carpet like a kick boxer’s, waiting for me to get up.

  Blood trickling from empty tooth sockets, I pulled myself up on my knees using the back of the settee. I forced snot from my nose so I could breathe. My jaw was almost too painful to move.

  He was still bouncing. ‘You want more games? Or just to sit – it’s up to you.’

  ‘OK, OK. I’ll sit.’

  I dropped the mosque over the side of the settee and it landed quietly on the carpet in front of the fireplace. I limped towards the chair. The TV news rolled on, Dubya and Tony Blair mouthing hollow promises to the ceiling.

  ‘Idiot. Next time I will really hurt you. Now sit.’ Standing over by the curtains, the source wasn’t even out of breath. The only reason he hadn’t killed me was because he didn’t know if he yet had genuine DW. Thank fuck for that.

  The mosque was lying on its side, out of his line of sight. I moved round to the front of the settee – then rushed for it again.

  There was a blur of movement to my right as I tried to get upright. I was too slow: I had to get in close to him before he could do any more jap slapping.

  He buried his head in my stomach and pushed me towards the fireplace. We stumbled over the TV and my back jarred against the tiles, knocking the wind out of my lungs. Blood spluttered from my damaged mouth.

  I kept an arm round him. If he managed to detach himself and got to use his hands, I’d be fucked.

  I brought down the mosque as hard as I could. I didn’t care where it hit him, just so long as it did. There was a loud groan and I held on to him tight, keeping him close.

  I wanted to target his head, but it was too far into my stomach. I lifted the mosque again and punched it down between his shoulder-blades.

  I could smell burning, then I felt heat. My hair was singeing against the fire-guard.

  I jerked away from the wall and we rolled. I bucked my way on top, pulling my arm clear so that I could smash the base of the mosque down on his head.

  I missed, but I got his neck.

  Down again, got his face.

  Down again. There was a dull crunch of bones. Blood. A muffled moan.

  He was only semi-conscious now, his blood soaking into the carpet. I kept astride him. ‘WHERE IS MY CHILD? WHERE IS THE HOUSE?’

  He turned his head and tried to smile, but he couldn’t get the muscles to work. ‘Soon, in hell.’

  I twisted the metal ornament in my hand so that the crescent moon on the tip of the muezzin tower was pointed towards him, and hammered it into his blood-soaked face, again and again.

  The heavy brass crunched against his head twice more, my arm juddering as I made contact, then his skull caved in.

  The little bubbles of blood stopped coming out of his nose. His eyes had a vacant stare, pupils fully dilated. A pool of darker blood thickened on the carpet, which couldn’t absorb the amount leaking out of him. I left the tower embedded in his temple.

  Swallowing more blood as I fought for oxygen, I plunged my hand into his pocket, feeling for his cell. There wasn’t time to fuck about looking for the son’s address. I wouldn’t know it even if I saw it.

  The phone was smeared with his blood but still powered up. I couldn’t call the Yes Man from here – I didn’t want him to know where the bottles were. Not yet.

  I swallowed a tooth, nearly choking as it tore its way down my throat. I got to my feet and ripped back the curtains, trying to control my breathing.

  Rain rattled against the windows. There was a main drag outside but no road signs. Directly opposite was a Victorian corner pub converted into a mosque.

  Where the fuck was Suzy?

  I lunged down the stairs, and out into the rain.

  The gates were corrugated: I undid the bolt, but they wouldn’t open. They’d been secured by the padlocked chain.

  I put the cell into a coat pocket and started a frenzied climb. Adrenaline sorted out the pain in my face as I slipped and slid on the angle-iron frame.

  I managed to wedge my right foot on the crosspiece, but as I pushed down on my heel to propel myself upwards, the skin split and I felt metal grate against bone.

  I threw myself over and collapsed on the pavement the other side, my whole body in pain. Curled up on the ground, trying to recover, I pulled out the cell to make sure it hadn’t got damaged in the fall. The power was still on, everything was OK.

  To my left, fifteen metres away, was the main, and on the other side of it the mosque. I hobbled towards it and saw a sign. I was at the junction of Northdown and Caledonian.

  Shit, I was just the other side of King’s Cross, the way Grey and Navy had gone when we followed them.

  Come on, Suzy, come on!

  I started dragging myself up Caledonian, the main, past the disused Indian. I had to get some distance between me and DW.

  Rain poured into my mouth as I gasped for air. Mud and grit worked their way inside my injured heel with every step.

  I dialled the Yes Man. He was on the line before I heard it ring.

  I jumped into the doorway of a Bangladeshi community centre at almost the same moment as Suzy drew up alongside in the Renault.

  ‘It’s me. Dark Winter – one of the bottles has been opened, but I’ve got them all contained.’

  ‘Slow down – say again?’

  I dashed across the pavement and into the car, slamming the door behind me.

  ‘Where’s D—?’

  I held up my hand to silence her, then plugged my free ear with a wet finger to cut out the roar of the heater and the drumbeat of the rain.

  I took a deep breath and held it a second. ‘I say again, I’ve got all Dark Winter contained.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Get a fix on this phone. I’ll keep it open.’

  ‘Is it with you?’

  ‘No. Shut up and listen. The ASU have split. They’re bound to have check-in times on this cell. One of the team is contaminated. I need to get there now – if they report in and there’s no answer . . .’

  ‘Report to who? What has happened?’


  ‘Doesn’t matter. Look, if they call in and don’t get an answer, fuck knows what they’ll do. I repeat, one of them is contaminated. This is the source’s cell. I’ll give you his numbers. You tell me where they are, and I can get there now, before they report in. You’ve got to get your finger out – I don’t know the check-in time. You understand?’

  Suzy revved the engine and dropped the clutch. ‘Let’s find that van.’

  I went through the menu to ‘calls made’ as the Renault screamed down the road. Suzy attacked the condensation on the windscreen as the wipers thrashed ineffectually on the other side of the glass. ‘Fucking car!’

  We passed a warren of roads through a housing estate.

  Three numbers came up. I knew the Yes Man would be on to it now he had this one, and would be checking its history, but it would take them a couple of minutes. This was quicker.

  Shit: 001212.

  The American call.

  I got back to him. ‘I’ve got a Manhattan number. He spoke to them less than thirty ago.’ I recited it, then reeled off the other two UK numbers.

  ‘Got it. Wait out.’ He cut off.

  Suzy slowed as we passed a service road for a run of shops, and wound down her window. I did the same, my eyes shooting all over the place, trying to ignore the pain in my foot.

  ‘I was just coming in to get you, then I saw you pile over the gate.’ She was virtually shouting at me, her head stuck out of the window so she could see ahead. The windscreen was thick with condensation. ‘I had to stay with DW. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Kelly is with them, they took her in the van.’

  ‘Tell the boss, he needs to know.’

  ‘Why? This is the only way I might get to her. He won’t give a shit about her. I just can’t take any chances.’

  We sped towards the junction, having cleared the service road. ‘I saw them – they went this way for sure. Fuck, fuck!’ She hit the brakes as the headlights caught a set of bollards blocking off a rat-run through the estate.

  We both turned and squinted through the rain-covered rear window as she reversed. ‘They can’t be more than five minutes away. They called in to the source when they got there. We’ve got to find them before their check-in time, or that’s it. Come on, throw this fucking thing round.’